It Keeps On Giving
I admit, I'm obsessed with celebrity news. I spent yesterday watching the crawl on E!, waiting for the latest on Britney's new 'do and the exact location of her new tats. I'm the go-to girl on all items of celebrity interest for my friends--at a get-together Saturday night, people were yelling questions at me from across the room about the actual marital status of Angelina and Brad (there is none). And I'm fascinating by the entire Anna Nicole saga, from the number of men claiming paternity to the crazy-ass judge who has declared that the body is his and isn't going anywhere anytime soon.
It was while listening to the coverage of Anna's plight and the discussion about where she's going to be buried that I recalled having a similar discussion with my family. Several years ago, when my father was still alive, I was over at my parent's house for dinner. My dad had been diagnosed with some rare form of leukemia and was undergoing chemo at the time. He was eventually in treatment for two years, during which time he'd cycle on and off of chemo and steroids and crushed oyster shells and chanting shamans or whatever the doctor recommended at the time. But, having been through a previous life-threatening illness, he was getting prepared.
"So, we're thinking of buying burial plots," he says, sipping his very dry martini, rocks, dirty, with extra olives.
I think this was right about the time that my great-aunt died and they hadn't ever bought plots anywhere, so the family cemetary out in Warren, Ohio, didn't have any room for her and, although not dead at the time, her husband. They were going to have to suffer the horror of getting planted in some large, corporate cemetary, far from the rest of the family and in a place unconnected with their home, their history, their heritage.
"Okay. What are you thinking?" I said. I was used to these discussions by that point. I was routinely lectured on the location of the safe deposit box keys, the location of all wills and trust documents, and the Rose Bowl watch, which was to be revered in all its proper glory after its owner's passing.
"Probably somewhere around here. We don't need to go back to Ohio."
"Okay. That's okay," I replied, imagining the funeral train that would be involved in such a transfer. Children waving and throwing flowers. All very Lincolnian.
"So, we were thinking..." he starts.
I should preface this that I recall this taking place in the fall. Around October, maybe. At a time where we had started thinking about the holidays.
"Yeah?"
"We were thinking that, for Christmas, we might get you a plot, too."
"Ummm..."
What is the proper response to that one? When someone offers to buy you a burial plot? On one hand, yeah, it is nice, I guess. It is an expensive proposition. But, dude, creepy much? I mean, really! And for Christmas? Is that gonna detract from the rest of my presents? Because I was really hoping for some gift certificates to Ann Taylor and Barnes & Noble. Does this subtract from the rest of my haul? Should I be looking this gift horse in the mouth?
And do I get to pick where we're going? Getting buried is kinda personal. I don't want it to be just anywhere on the side of the road. Actually, I'm not so certain that I even want to get buried. I'm thinking cremation instead and getting scattered. But, you know, I'm in my 30s and I don't have kids and I really don't think this is a big deal for me to think about at this point.
Oh, now I get it. This is because I'm not married yet. You're gonna go buy three plots, one of which is for your poor spinster daughter who has no hope of catching herself a man who will pay for her to be buried next to him! I see how this is! Poor, pathetic Miss Head! Who'll want to spend eternity next to her if we don't, is what you're thinking!
My parents ended up buying space for their ashes in a local mausoleum. I'm safe. For the time being.
It was while listening to the coverage of Anna's plight and the discussion about where she's going to be buried that I recalled having a similar discussion with my family. Several years ago, when my father was still alive, I was over at my parent's house for dinner. My dad had been diagnosed with some rare form of leukemia and was undergoing chemo at the time. He was eventually in treatment for two years, during which time he'd cycle on and off of chemo and steroids and crushed oyster shells and chanting shamans or whatever the doctor recommended at the time. But, having been through a previous life-threatening illness, he was getting prepared.
"So, we're thinking of buying burial plots," he says, sipping his very dry martini, rocks, dirty, with extra olives.
I think this was right about the time that my great-aunt died and they hadn't ever bought plots anywhere, so the family cemetary out in Warren, Ohio, didn't have any room for her and, although not dead at the time, her husband. They were going to have to suffer the horror of getting planted in some large, corporate cemetary, far from the rest of the family and in a place unconnected with their home, their history, their heritage.
"Okay. What are you thinking?" I said. I was used to these discussions by that point. I was routinely lectured on the location of the safe deposit box keys, the location of all wills and trust documents, and the Rose Bowl watch, which was to be revered in all its proper glory after its owner's passing.
"Probably somewhere around here. We don't need to go back to Ohio."
"Okay. That's okay," I replied, imagining the funeral train that would be involved in such a transfer. Children waving and throwing flowers. All very Lincolnian.
"So, we were thinking..." he starts.
I should preface this that I recall this taking place in the fall. Around October, maybe. At a time where we had started thinking about the holidays.
"Yeah?"
"We were thinking that, for Christmas, we might get you a plot, too."
"Ummm..."
What is the proper response to that one? When someone offers to buy you a burial plot? On one hand, yeah, it is nice, I guess. It is an expensive proposition. But, dude, creepy much? I mean, really! And for Christmas? Is that gonna detract from the rest of my presents? Because I was really hoping for some gift certificates to Ann Taylor and Barnes & Noble. Does this subtract from the rest of my haul? Should I be looking this gift horse in the mouth?
And do I get to pick where we're going? Getting buried is kinda personal. I don't want it to be just anywhere on the side of the road. Actually, I'm not so certain that I even want to get buried. I'm thinking cremation instead and getting scattered. But, you know, I'm in my 30s and I don't have kids and I really don't think this is a big deal for me to think about at this point.
Oh, now I get it. This is because I'm not married yet. You're gonna go buy three plots, one of which is for your poor spinster daughter who has no hope of catching herself a man who will pay for her to be buried next to him! I see how this is! Poor, pathetic Miss Head! Who'll want to spend eternity next to her if we don't, is what you're thinking!
My parents ended up buying space for their ashes in a local mausoleum. I'm safe. For the time being.
posted by Miss Head at
5:37 AM
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